“Hey, how do you know?”
“Trust me, I know.”
But I don’t say anything, and soon Jiri’s gone. So I get up and walk toward the front of the room. A few dozen kids are already gathered around Resi and Freudenfeld. Meanwhile, Schaechter remains at the piano, playing something too soft for me to hear.
July 20, 1943
“AND THEN,” I SAY TO Mother, “then Otto—”
“Otto?” she asks.
“Otto Hirsch,” I say, “I told you already.”
“Oh,” she says, and sits down on one of the benches in front of her barracks. She pats the spot next to her, so I sit down too. I took my dinner over to her tonight, but she insisted we eat out here. Which was a good idea, because even though the heat broke a little this afternoon, the inside of the Dresden Barracks still feels like an oven. “So, this Otto—”
“Right, he has the ball. And he’s really good. I would pay a thousand crowns to be able to dribble like him. Seriously. All game, just like Franta said, we’ve been pushing them to the sideline. And it’s been working, because—”
“But you were losing two to one. How is that working?”
“Because,” I say, and roll my eyes, “because if we weren’t doing that it would have been four to one at least by then. At least.”
“You’re not impressed I remembered the score?” she says, and does this thing where she tickles me behind my ear.
“C’mon, stop it.”
“So then what?”
“Okay, so Otto has the ball”—I hop up off the bench—“and my job is to—”
“To force him to the sideline, yes.”
“Right, but—” And for a moment I see the whole sequence in my head again, how big he is, how fast he was coming, how hard he was biting down on his bottom lip. “I know he really wants to go inside. All game he’s been trying to, but we won’t let him. Not me or Jiri or Leo or anyone. So guess what happens?”
“You . . .” Mother crosses her legs. “You . . . I don’t know, Misha, what happened?”
“Okay, so . . .” And I start trying to show her, but it’s hard all by myself. I grab her hand. “Stand up.”
“Misha, please.”
“C’mon.”
“I’m exhausted.” She pulls her hand back. “This heat, and the hours at the workshop. Plus extra time working on the set for that strange opera of yours.”
“Pleeeease,” I say, “it won’t make sense with just me.”
Mother shakes her head a few times, but then gets up. “You have fifteen seconds.”
“Okay, okay. So you’re Otto.”
“I’m Otto?”
“And you’ve got the ball.” But Mother just stands there. “C’mon, dribble at me.”
“But I don’t have a ball.”
“So pretend,” I say, and take a few steps back. Mother comes my way slowly, taking these small, weird steps, which I guess is her idea of dribbling. “Okay, so, if I’ve been pushing you to the sideline all game, and suddenly I let you go the other way, what do you do. If you’re Otto?”
“I say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gruenbaum, you’re so kind—’ ”
“I’m serious, Mother,” I say, and for a second something in my throat gets stuck swallowing the words “Mr. Gruenbaum.” But there’s no time for that. “What do you do?”
“I go inside, right?”
“Exactly,” I say, and come up close to her and turn a bit so that I’m covering her left side. “So, go.”
“Go?”
“Inside!” And she starts up again with those weird steps of hers, and just like in the game, I quickly slide in front of her, all the way down to the ground, my left foot extended as far as it will go.
“Misha!” she says as she trips over my feet. She doesn’t fall, but she comes pretty close, barely catching herself with one of her hands in the dirt. “Tell me something,” she says, kneeling on the ground and groaning for a moment. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Sorry.”
She stands back up, her face all red, wiping the dirt from her hand. “If this dress—this rag—if it rips, I’ll have exactly one dress left.”
“Sorry,” I say, and sit back down. “Sorry.” She joins me and does something with her hair.
“So after you tripped poor Otto—”
“But that’s just it,” I say. “I didn’t trip him. It was a totally legal tackle. I stole the ball. Poked it right out from under him. He thought he had me beat, but it was me who tricked him.” And I can hear it again, the way our sideline erupted, the sound Felix let out as he raced for the loose ball, Pudlina shouting his brother’s name as he sprinted toward the other goal, and most of all that perfect thump as the ball shot off Felix’s foot. “And just like that it was two to two.”
“You scored? You didn’t tell me you scored. That’s wonderful, Mi—”
“No, I didn’t score. Pudlina did. But I set it up. I forced the turnover.”
“That’s great.” Mother squeezes my hand. But I can tell she doesn’t really understand. Which shouldn’t surprise me. She barely knows the first thing about soccer. But so what? Because it really was the turning point. Franta came up to me after the game, after Erich scored the go-ahead off a corner kick, after Koko made one last incredible save, after we all chanted “Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim!” so many times so loudly I thought my throat was going to rip open, after all that Franta took me aside, put his hands on both my shoulders and said, “Misha, you little genius! I was sure you had messed up! Just ask Grizzly what I started to say. Actually, don’t. I was ready to yank you out, but then, just like that, the most beautiful counterattack I’ve ever seen. At any level. You swung the game, Misha.” He pointed at my chest. “You. If they score there, it’s three to one, and I don’t think we come back from such a deficit. What did I tell you? What did I say? You score one goal all season, but you manage to make the key play in the championship match!”
I turn to Mother. Her eyes are closed. “Mother?”
She jerks up straight and opens her eyes wide. “I’m sorry. Sorry. So it’s two to two. You just stole the ball.”
“Forget it,” I say.
“No, but I want to hear.”
“It’s fine.” I stand up from the bench. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. I need to head back anyway.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “Do you have a few minutes to come inside first?”
“I really have to go. Franta—”
“I think you’ll be glad you did, Misha,” she says. “I have a surprise for you.”
* * *
The room is quieter than I ever remember, I guess because everyone’s outside where it’s not so muggy. Fewer than ten women scattered here and there. “Sit down, sit down,” Mother says to me when we reach her bed in one corner of the room. For some reason, she and Marietta moved spots recently.
“Hey, where’s Marietta?”
“She said she was going to Hannah’s room,” Mother says, laughing to herself. “Those two are inseparable.” Mother reaches under the bunk and pulls out a parcel maybe half the size of a shoebox.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Do you remember Max and Greta Klein?” I shake my head. “He worked with Father for a number of years.” Then she stops for a moment, like she forgot what she was about to tell me.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Max and Rose. We had them over a number of times. I know you met them.” She wipes the sweat off her forehead. “Well, anyway. They’re in Portugal. Her brother lives there. They were able to get out in 1940. And she sent us a package.” Mother reaches her hand inside the small package and pulls out an even smaller tin.
“Sardines?” I ask. Mother nods her head and smiles. I reach my hand out to grab them.
“But wait, Misha,” she says, “there’s only one tin. And you know how your sister feels about them.” Of course I do. Sardines were one of the top things we used to fight over back in Holesovice. And they were often part of
the number one thing we’d fight over, which was the paticka, the crispy end of a fresh loaf of bread. Mother would bring one home, and we’d already be fighting over it before she unpacked the rest of the groceries. Of course there were two ends, but Mother wouldn’t let us eat the second until the family ate its way down to it. And there’s nothing better than a fat, oily sardine on the paticka. Nothing.
“Okay, okay,” I say, and take the can from her. “Can I open it?”
“Of course.”
I remove the small key from the top of the can, slide it into place, and begin peeling back the thin metal cover. The ends of four large sardines, two tails and two heads, come into view, their silver skin shining through the oil. My favorite, the big kind. Some kids think I’m crazy for liking sardines, but I love them too much to pretend they’re gross, which I know is what most everyone else thinks.
Mother is leaning over me, watching. “Okay, so two for you, and two for Marietta.” I nod my head and continue peeling. I hunch over the can, because I’m certain the other women in the room can smell what I’m smelling, that rich, fishy scent. It’s probably been three years since I’ve actually eaten one. I expect Mother to tell me to go wash my hands or get a plate or any of the hundred things she used to tell me to do before I could eat back in Prague, but I guess the rules are different here. In fact, when I look up from the tin after opening it all the way, she’s gone. I scan the room. She’s at the far end, talking to Aunt Louise, who must have come down from her room on the third floor.
I lower my thumb and index finger into the tin and pull out one of the middle fish. But then I put it down, just so I can lick the oil off the tips of my fingers. Unbelievably delicious. I would drink a whole glass of it, I swear. Then I pick the sardine back up, tip my head back, and drop it in.
Somehow it’s even better than I remember. I guess because it’s real food. Just a fish, an actual fish. Not watery soup, not a bland slice of bread, not a mushed-up potato with no salt or butter. My throat is like a plant that hasn’t been watered, a plant that’s been baking in the hot sun for weeks. Because I don’t chew the sardine, I just absorb it immediately. At least that’s what it feels like.
I put the can down. Because now I only have one left. I need to wait, since soon I won’t have any. How many could I eat? If there were a pile of these cans stacked all the way to the ceiling, how many sardines would I gobble up before I didn’t want any more? A hundred? Three hundred? A thousand?
But what’s the point in waiting? The can is back in my hand. I grab a sardine from along the edge. It looks a tiny bit fatter than the others, which maybe isn’t fair to Marietta, but she’ll never know. I try eating this one in small bites, but without a plate or a piece of bread underneath—I should have asked Mother if she had a roll hidden somewhere—it’s not easy. Soon, just like that, it’s gone.
Where should I leave the can? You don’t just leave something this rare sitting around in a place like this. As nice as all these women look, the can would disappear in ten seconds. Mother’s still talking to Aunt Louise. I could just walk over there, but Mother might not want her to see it. And there’s no way I’d put it down here and go over to them without it. So I’ll just wait. Mother will be back soon enough. And anyway, Aunt Louise is nice, but sometimes she pinches my cheeks, which I hate.
I wish Mother would hurry up. Because soon Franta will be mad.
Those sardines look so good. I swear they look even better than they did when I first opened the can. Like eating them reminded me of just how good they actually taste. Why can’t Marietta hate them, the way she hates mustard?
Huh, that one tail is kind of bent. It’s almost falling off. Which happens sometimes, I’ve seen it before. Sometimes they’re not all identical, even if they normally are. I could just tell her the tail was missing from one. She’d believe me. Probably. And Mother was gone before I opened the can all the way. At least I think she was.
I really shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t.
But the tail is almost broken.
And I’m so, so hungry. Even after dinner and those first two sardines.
Because of what Franta said. When we got back to our room after the game, he said, “Nesharim! How I wish I had a giant cake for us all to share. A giant chocolate cake with ‘Champions’ written across the top in silver, no, golden, frosting.” And all of us closed our eyes and pretended to eat that cake. Ever since, all I’ve wanted is something to celebrate with.
Why did I forget to celebrate when I ate the first two?
But it’s not fair, and I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t.
I really, really, really shouldn’t.
* * *
I take the back stairway out of the barracks, because Felix told me he saw a soccer ball there yesterday afternoon. Also, that way I’ll be less likely to run into Marietta, because all I can think about is the feel of that barely broken tail sliding down my throat, a tail that belonged to her. And it’s true, she loves sardines even more than me.
At the bottom of the stairs I see two people in a dark, far-off doorway. They have their arms around each other, and one of them is rubbing his, or her, arms up and down the other one’s back. Before I can decide if I should keep going or not, one of them walks out in the courtyard.
It’s a boy, or a man, hard to tell. Maybe Franta’s age, maybe younger. He’s pretty tall, with broad shoulders, and he stops about ten steps from the doorway and turns around. A couple of seconds later the other person steps out, goes over to him, and takes his hand. Right before they kiss, I get a good look at the face of the second person, which wasn’t really necessary to begin with, since I’d recognize Marietta skipping from twice this distance.
September 23, 1943
“MISHA,” MOTHER SAYS, “HOLD THIS chair, would you? One leg is shorter than the others, I don’t trust it.”
“C’mon, Mother,” I say, “I’ve got to go. There’s only an hour before the show, and I need to eat dinner fir—”
“Do you want the backdrop for your opera finished or not?” she asks.
“Fine,” I say, and grab the chair.
“I mean, look at that,” Mother says, carefully stepping up onto it. “This house has no chimney. What kind of house has no chimney?”
It’s funny, hearing Mother say something like that. It’s even weirder to see her with a paintbrush in her hand. I can barely remember her ever drawing with me back in Prague, let alone doing anything artistic herself. But here it’s different.
She even told me that her boss, some Dutch guy named Jo Spier, who I guess is a real artist, said she makes the best stuffed animals in the whole workshop. Her specialty is teddy bears. “How I wish I could get you one. They are rather adorable,” she said a few weeks ago, which I guess was nice, so I didn’t bother to tell her that I’m way too old for stuffed animals. Even so, I mentioned it to some of the guys, and they didn’t believe me, didn’t believe that Nazis would have us making teddy bears for them and didn’t believe that Mother could make a good one.
“Mother,” I say, because something suddenly pops into my head.
“Yes, dear?”
“Why don’t we have to hide this the way we hide the Program? And not just this, but all the other, you know, the plays and music and everything. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Mother looks down at me from the chair. “I’m not sure, Misha. There’s a lot about their decisions I don’t understand. Why do they do any of the things they do?”
Part of me thinks she might be keeping something from me, but I don’t feel like asking her again. Not right now at least.
“So, are you ready?” she asks.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. “Well, I am at least.”
She doesn’t ask what I mean by that last part, because she knows what I’m talking about. Rehearsals had been going great, but then, less than three weeks ago, two huge transports in one day. They were the first ones in over half a year, and just like that five thousand people di
sappeared, including about ten kids from the cast, along with a few Nesharim. We didn’t have rehearsal for over a week, and I heard they even talked about postponing the opera completely. Eventually we started up again, but replacing the kids who left and teaching the new kids their parts hasn’t been easy. And since then, I don’t know, things really haven’t been the same. It’s like I can’t ever forget that they might announce a transport at any moment. And that I might be on it. Even when I’m doing something really fun, like playing cards, I’ll forget it for a moment, until I remember it again. This happens dozens of times a day, every day now.
Mother gets down from the chair, takes a few steps back, and looks up. “Well, what do you think?”
“I like it,” I say. And I’m not just being polite, the backdrop really is pretty great. It actually looks like a town, with buildings, houses, a tree, even a nice round sign that says SCHOOL.
“Do you know,” Mother says, “this is the hardest ticket to get in all of Terezin?”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, yes,” she says, “harder than the Ghetto Swingers, harder even than that Beethoven concert last month.”
And I can see Mother is about to tell me all about that again, so I say I’ll see her after the show, hop off the stage, and run to dinner.
* * *
“Now remember,” Mr. Freudenfeld tells us all, “slower and louder than you think you need to be. Slower and louder.” He raises his eyebrows, which he does a lot for some reason, turning them into two upside-down V’s. “How are the acoustics here in the Magdeburg Barracks?” he asks.
“They’re awful!” all forty of us say together. He’d started saying that about these barracks a couple of weeks ago, back when we were rehearsing in the Dresden Barracks, where the sound is also pretty lousy. But I think he’s right, it’s actually worse here, maybe because the room is bigger. Even with just the musicians warming up nearby, I can barely hear him.
Actually only about thirty-nine of us say it, because Ela, who plays the cat, is having her makeup fixed by Mr. Zelenka, the man who picked Mother to help with the backdrop. Ela told me once that he was the most famous set designer in all of Prague before the Nazis showed up. He even smuggled his professional makeup kit here. Her whiskers look pretty amazing.
Somewhere There Is Still a Sun Page 13
